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After numerous unsuccessful IVF attempts, I finally conceived despite my husband's low sperm count.

As I was battling severe morning sickness, my husband was commemorating his third year with his assistant. She shared a WhatsApp update showing him meticulously cutting her steak, captioned: [Such a thoughtful boss... I'll serve him forever...]

Fighting my queasiness, I approved the post. Soon after, he phoned me, saying, "What's your issue now? You're useless lately, just being sick. Louise takes care of everything for me. You should appreciate her reducing your workload!"

I retorted sarcastically, "Sure, I'll express my gratitude later!"

"You've changed! Has pregnancy made you forget yourself?" He berated me before abruptly ending the call.

I sighed deeply. Indeed, I'd been away so long, I'd nearly forgotten my own name.

I dialed a number I hadn't used in years, "Charlie, arrange a flight for tomorrow. I'm returning to Chicago."

——

Charlie, my aide, responded enthusiastically, "Miss Hoffman, did I hear correctly? You've been gone for six years. Are you truly coming back? This isn't a joke, right?"

Gently touching my slightly swollen abdomen, I smiled ruefully, "No joke, it's happening."

After hanging up, I promptly booked an appointment with Houston's leading obstetrician for an abortion that day.

The doctor was Dr. Grant, who had overseen my IVF treatments. He was astonished when I requested an abortion.

"This baby is the result of over ten IVF cycles. Are you certain you want to terminate?" As Dr. Grant spoke, the nearby nurses looked on.

Pale-faced, I nodded resolutely, "I'm sure."

Troy had low sperm count. We'd been married for six years, always hoping for our own child. We endured countless IVF cycles and hospital visits to prepare for pregnancy.

Even the hospital staff recognized me, aware of my deep desire for a child.

Once, despite being anemic and advised to recover before continuing IVF, I persisted.

When I discovered I was pregnant, the medical team celebrated with me, saying my dedication had been rewarded. Now, it all seemed like a cruel joke.

Dr. Grant sighed and instructed the nurse to prepare. While I signed the consent form, he instinctively looked behind me, "Where's your husband? Doesn't he need to sign too?"

I smiled bitterly, "No need. I'll sign alone."

Dr. Grant looked up, surprised and sympathetic.

Post-procedure, my usually silent phone buzzed. Troy had messaged: [Working dinner tonight, won't be home.]

The message was two hours old. I didn't respond. As I was about to put my phone away, two more notifications appeared.

They were from Louise. She sent a provocative picture of herself in lingerie, which she quickly erased.

Then, she called, her voice fake-sweet and tearful, "Felicia, I mistakenly sent you a photo meant for my boyfriend. You don't mind, right? I'm so sorry, I've been working for 22 hours straight. I was so tired, I sent it to the wrong person ..."

I scoffed, "22 hours working? Including sleeping with him? You're so dedicated, even taking your work to bed. We should definitely award you 'Employee of the Year' at the company's annual ceremony." I hung up and blocked her without waiting for a reply.